


And Tie It In A Bow

by HandsAcrossTheSea



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 12:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HandsAcrossTheSea/pseuds/HandsAcrossTheSea
Summary: The best medicine doesn't come from the hospital.





	And Tie It In A Bow

**Author's Note:**

> This was gonna be longer but then I decide to make the executive writerly decision of I've written a whole lot of what it was gonna be anyway, and lets these words stand on their own. Honestly, you're never gonna be able to tell me that Dean going down on Sam isn't the prettiest picture in the world. Apologies to those who want or are looking for something longer/better, but I haven't the spoons.

Walking the aisles of the liquor store, looking like he does right now, it’s not so hard for people to give Dean as wide a birth as possible. Scuffed, bruised, he looks like he just walked out of hell after spending a little too long there. He hasn’t seen it for himself yet, been told to go there God knows how many times. The way shit’s been swinging lately, he’s probably got a first class ticket on the fastest possible route there. Ain’t such a bad thing, he figures - finding out that people had souls, actual, live souls, he does at least draw some comfort in knowing where he’s headed. There’s demons, plenty of them, but angels? Haven’t found ‘em yet. Not really sure if he wants to.

Dean brushes some of the sulfuric dust that’s still lingering on the surface of his jacket off, smiling at a lady trying to scoot past him to the rum. He flashes her a smile, which makes her move even faster - man, he knows he looks like shit but is it that bad that housewives are avoiding him? Maybe the face staring back at him in the Impala wasn’t quite what he perceived after all. Whatever. He’s not here to pick anyone up, just out on a mission.

He isn’t even the one that took the brunt of the hurt on that last run. Nope, Sam had. Jumped right on top of their demon - yeah, Sam’s fucking  _ wrestling  _ them now, and proceeded to get the hell beat out of him. The fucker got him up against a wall, bloody mouthed, Sam’s kill switch thrown to wide fucking open and snarling even louder than the demon - Dean hadn’t noticed that Sam was being held by a knife through his right hand to it until Dean had nailed the fucker in the back with one of those magic bullets. A knife, through the palm. Emergency room bad, and a little too reminiscent of a botched crucifixion for Dean’s face. Lots and lots of blood, Sam roaring with pain and rage, as fast as possible of trip in and out of the ER fifty miles back. Dean’s good, but he isn’t knife clean through the hand good. 

Scared the fucking shit out of him, and Sam, he’d tried to tell Dean he didn’t need to go. He’d be okay. Just needs some gauze, Dean, good as new.

Not when Dean can practically see fucking daylight through his skin, absolutely not. Not enough gauze in the fucking world to fix that. Hospital bad levels of injury, that means it’s beyond Dean’s control, and it happened to Sam. Not him.

He doesn’t even realize he’s standing in front of the bourbon until he comes out of his memory, reliving it a little too hard. Dean gets that it’s hard, but the alternative could have been through Sam’s heart, stomach, whatever - and Dean figures he’s out of favors to whatever power’s out there to bring Sam back from that. He didn’t have a lot to start with, but some of those had to have been used up in dodging whatever craptastic VD he should have had by now. Condoms ain’t cheap, and Dean isn’t always careful. Whatever. If he’s got kids running around somewhere, he doesn’t want to know about ‘em. Better if you leave it somewhere a little further north, but shit is what it is.

Dean picks up two bottles of Jim Beam, swipes a bottle of Captain Morgan just for good measure, and takes his place in line. The cashier’s friendly enough until Dean sets his purchases on the counter, pulls out an ID that has just enough legibility on it that he won’t flag, and wonders just how rattled he made the guy. He got most of the blood off in the motel sink, and that isn’t even the bad part. Sam’s worse, having had to get the gore scraped from him into the bathtub. Housekeeping ain’t gonna like that one, but it isn’t exactly like Dean’s carrying around an extra supply of Scrubbing Bubbles.

The clerk looks Dean over, asks “rough day?” - gestures to the cuts and bruises on Dean’s face and hands. Dean shrugs, hand in his pocket to fish for his cash.

“Just work. Don’t worry about it.” He hands over the total, takes his change, stuffs the three bottles of liquor into the paper bag on the end of the counter. In and out, like there’s nothing to it. The lady with the rum sees him in the parking lot, hurries to her car, and really, it isn’t him that she should be running from, it’s the shit that he and Sam deal with. Like demons.

He almost hands the bag off to Sam, then remembers Sam isn’t with him. He’s at the motel, lying on the bed, hopefully resting and letting the painkillers do their work. Getting him showered was hard enough work, his right arm curled to his side and trying not to get it wet. Dean’s pretty sure he wound up with a couple of bruised ribs too, the way they were throwing down - and the demons was  _ struggling.  _ Sam’s got it fucking in him to do his best Macho Man impression with a demon, and Dean isn’t sure if that’s scary or arousing. Both, since his kinks already come from weird fucking places.

He starts the Impala and goes across the street to pick up his pizza, two large, one four meat, the other veggie and white cheese because tonight, he’s gonna let Sam have it without ribbing. A fucking knife through the hand and demon wrestling earned him a break. Well. A little bit of one. 

It’s probably worrisome that the girl at the pizza counter barely bats an eye at his rough appearance, but in a pizza joint, you probably see some shit. Dean looking like he’s been dragged behind a truck for ten miles down a gravel road probably isn’t the strangest thing she’s seen, and he supposes that he ought to be grateful for it. Less interrogation, the better. No one wants to hear about the how and why of monster killing.

The late summer weather of Maine is already mild, and Dean’s pulling his jacket a little closer to him when he gets out of the car with the grub and booze. Carrying it one handed, he unlocks and pushes the door open with his hip, spies Sam trying to sit up, waving the pistol back away from the door - like he’s in any shape to hit something right now.

“Hell, Sam you look like shit.” Dean gives him a game smile and Sam goes to lift his right arm to flip him off, realizes he can’t see his fingers, and then uses the left. That just makes Dean’s grin get bigger, and he sits down on the foot of the bed to toe off his boots, checking Sam out of the corner of his eye. “Hungry?”

Sam grunts as he sits up, his sweatpants pulling where he doesn’t quite lift up enough to give them room, exposing an unmarred strip of stomach and hip from underneath his worn black tee. Dean watches, casual, until Sam’s upright enough he won’t choke if he tries to eat. “They have white?”

“Sure did, and I’m a little upset that they even had the rabbit food equivalent of pizza.” Sam rolls his eyes, like Dean expects him to, mumbles under his breath  _ well at least I won’t die of a fucking heart attack at thirty.  _ That subtle backbite, that’s the most comforting thing Dean can hear right now. If Sam can argue, he’s not feeling as bad as he looks. 

“You uh, good to eat with one paw?” Dean puts the box in his lap, figuring it’s easier than trying to plate out on paper towels. Sam doesn’t complain, and fishes out a piece left handed. Looks back at Dean, strings of cheese spilling off the end.

“What?”

“Nothin’. Want a drink now or you gonna stick with water?” Dean sets his own pizza aside and gets a couple of plastic cups, measuring out the whiskey and fishing a beer out of the cooler. He isn’t planning on going anywhere else tonight, so there’s no time like the present to start.

“Water’s fine, but keep that stuff handy.” 

Dean can feel his eyes on him, and he downs the whiskey first, facing Sam, the burn of it absolutely perfect as it slides down his throat, pours out another measure, and takes his spot back on the bed, giving Sam’s right arm room. There’s still plenty of room to stretch out, and he turns the t.v. up once he’s settled - Gunsmoke’s on, and okay, yeah, Dean’s perfectly alright with watching the bad guys get beat fair and square. He and Sam saw God knows how many Gunsmoke marathons in countless motels around the country, and there’s a comfort to it that quiets Dean’s mind as they eat in comfortable silence. 

Sam eats three big slices before he sets the box aside, sipping water, his weight settling ever so gradually against Dean’s side until they’re pressed thigh to thigh, warm, familiar, occasionally stealing sips of Dean’s whiskey. Probably shouldn’t be mixing Vicodin with liquor, but Dean’s not gonna tell him what to do. Rough enough day as it is.

“You know, this fuckin’ sucks, Dean.” Sam yawns, and finally ends up with his head against Dean’s shoulder. “Now I can’t do anything.” He picks up his bandaged hand, so thickly wrapped that it’s a wonder Sam can feel anything past his elbow. “Kinda crap with my left hand, you know?”

Dean chuckles, his pizza fairly well demolished. He’s full, warm in that buzzed way that means he’s gonna have a couple more to keep it going. “Least I don’t have to worry about you tryin’ to jerk it in the middle of the night.” Dean leans forward and takes his jacket off, tosses it over onto his duffle, leaving him in just his sweat-and-sulfur stained tee. Sam wrinkles his nose, but goes right back to where he was.

“Like you wouldn’t be there first,” he murmurs, and maybe he’s right. “Was kinda hoping to… you know.”

Dean listens, the sounds from the television a million miles away. “What, Sam?”

Sam shrugs, makes himself wince. “Just it’s been a couple weeks, on the road and shit. Been working hard.” He nuzzles Dean’s neck, two days worth of stubble against his skin making goosebumps prickle down his spine. “Guess that got ruined, didn’t it?”

“‘S it really been that long?” Dean closes his eyes, takes another sip, lets Sam have the rest of it. The days have been blending together, with more than a few nights thrown in, there’s been lots of road time, research, a couple of girls apiece cause that’s what they needed for that span of time and… shit.

Sam sighs, beat to all shit tired. Dean can’t blame him, not in the least. “Can wait, Dean. Or we, uh, don’t have to at all. ‘S okay.”

It really isn’t and not just because Sam’s blitzed on painkillers and probably hurts more than he’s willing to cop to. Dean’s body betrays him, cock hardening in his dirty jeans, wanting things only Sam can give him. “‘M tired.”

“I know, Sammy.” He turns in towards him, makes sure Sam’s looking at him. “Hey, listen - ‘s not because I don’t want to, because believe me, I do. But I like having full participation, and I’m not doin’ all the work. Hear me?” He runs his fingers through Sam’s hair, soft from the scrubbing Dean gave it, his own fingers still black at the edges of his nails from their hunt. Sam nods, yawning huge again, and closes his eyes one last time.

Dean isn’t about to go to bed still gross, and once he’s got Sam under the covers and the grease wiped from his hands, he strips down and heads for the shower, snagging one more beer on the way. He turns the water up to scalding and steps under the spray, standing there for a solid five minutes just letting it soak him. The thing between them, this… thing. Because Dean hasn’t got a better word for it, it’s been there for a pretty long time now that the physical side of it is something they can take and go as they feel. 

But it isn’t something that Dean doesn’t ever  _ not  _ want, because he does. Nobody reads his skin like Sam does, and most of it’s just from Sam trying and understanding, and Dean not so much saying but moaning what he wants. They keep that information about each other, and sure, it’s been a few days since Dean thought about it but he wonders, really, truly wonders what Sam had in mind for tonight, had he not been stuck like that. It isn’t even that Sam’s particularly sneaky about his wants - but that big fucking brain really is the most attractive thing about him, because he ways he gets Dean off, he couldn’t begin to come up with himself. People want to paint Dean as the kinky one, the one that’s a little fucked up in the things he wants - it’s a big goddamn lie. 

That’s all Sam.

Feeling like it’s something he shouldn’t do, he ignores his cock and scrubs up, finishes his beer as the water starts to get cold. The bathtub looks like a fucking war crime, there’s Sam’s bloody clothes still on the floor, probably not worth saving. Sulfur’s hard to get out, never mind blood.

As Dean climbs into bed, naked, way more tired than anything else, he’s just glad that most of it’s still inside Sam and not soaking the floor of that fucking demo job they finally caught the bastard in.

And if he nuzzles the back of Sam’s head to lull himself to asleep, that’s entirely Dean’s business to mind.

___

Dean lets Sam have three days before he starts to get antsy, with absolutely nothing to do but watch Sam rest and spend way too much time researching hand injuries. He learns all about the different bones and nerves, either at the wobbly little table in the corner or on the bed with Sam trying to read or sleep - the painkillers make him drowsy as fuck, and it’s kinda spooky, because Sam’s always doing  _ something.  _ Researching. Talking. Reading some thick tome that only he would find any sort of entertaining. Instead, he’s silent, keeps his hand close to his side, and he recovers. Dean can allow him that much.

How the hell the demon didn’t shatter any of his bones, Dean’s just gonna chalk up to pure luck. It was a through and through, but it definitely severed nerves and Sam lost a hell of a lot of blood, too. He keeps him hydrated, fed, in between rounds of sleep. It isn’t really enough and were it up to him, they’d be getting Sam restorative therapy and proper reconstruction of what might need it, but they don’t have that luxury, which leads Dean down the rabbit hole of potions, spells, anything that they can reasonably manage with what they might have on hand. Eventually it’s gonna necessitate a trip to Bobby’s, just because their supply stock isn’t what it should be. 

For now, he’s just making sure to keep Sam comfortable, talking, and not feeling like he’s done some sort of fuck-up. Dean had wanted to be mad at first, Sam tossing himself into the utter definition of harm’s way in trying to take that motherfucker down. Except it was actually really bad ass and had the demon not pulled the knife on Sam, he would have kept the upper hand. Sam in kill mode is blood-freezing terrifying, because Sam loses all of his fear at that point. Nothing stands between him and the way of blood then.

Dean finds himself wondering just where exactly along the way that Sam learned that, or if it was just in him already. He gets weird about demons, weirder than anything else they hunt, and like hell if Dean can piece together why. The look Sam gets in his eyes, it’s pure, cold-blooded murder, and there’s a part of Dean that’s waiting for Sam to start summoning just to kill them. 

No need in exploring that little tangent until when, or if, it happens. Right now, Sam isn’t in any shape to kill a fly, much less a being from Hell.

On the fourth day, Sam’s actually awake before him, hunched over the laptop, six days unshaven, but looking far more alert than he has in days. Dean picks his head up, mouth dry as baking pavement - “Sammy, you alright?”  
Sam looks over at him, nodding, wincing when he bumps his hand against the arm of the chair he’s sitting in. “Found us something. Florida, looks like.” He gets up, balancing the laptop in his good hand, his pajama pants tugging low enough that his treasure trail’s running right into the forest. Dean pays more attention, their brief, half-drunk conversation from the other night coming back to him. He’s managed to sneak a couple of quick ones in the shower during that time, but it’s akin to letting the pressure valve open on a fucking volcano.

He wants Sam, and not in a way that’s a little bit of necking and dry humping.

“Lots of disappearances, gone two or three days, but then they come back but everything’s wrong. Wave of violent abuse, property destruction - skinwalker, maybe more than one.” He’s far too excited about it, and Dean isn’t nearly awake enough to match that level of enthusiasm. He sits up a little more anyway, yawning and stretching. Sam watches him, just like he’s supposed to, and that at least, feels slightly more like normal.

“Long ass drive, for one - and skinwalkers ain’t exactly easy. Sure you’re up to it?” If it’s making the news, then there’s probably already another hunter on it. Sam gives him a look like Dean just accused him of fragility, stubborn as hell. “I mean, if you’re feeling okay.”

Sam shrugs, sets the laptop down. “Nothing to hurt in checking it out, ‘s all. I know we’ve been here a while. Besides, I’m tired of laying around.” He scratches absently at his scruff, which makes him wrinkle his nose. “And I need to shave.” He gets up, goes over to his bag and starts to look for his dopp kit, hiking his pants up with his good hand. Dean’s fingers ache to touch, the bruises that Sam collected fading and purpling. He’s a tough son of a bitch, moving a lot better than he ought to be.

“Need a hand?” Dean swings his legs out from under the covers, tucking his morning wood up into his waistband as best he can. “Or do you wanna prove you can do it yourself?”

Sam laughs, mockingly, and Dean hears the sink run. “Not like I’m completely useless, Dean, and this, I got it. Seriously.” Sam sticks his head out of the bathroom door, shirt gone and shaving cream covering his face. “But I wouldn’t mind the company.”

His tones leaves Dean with the chance to decline, if he wants. He knows he’s been… hovering. For good reason, not because Sam’s unable to take care of himself. He gets up, goes into the bathroom and takes a piss while Sam works on shaving, one handed. He’s delicate about it, eyes locked on his reflection. Some of the shaving cream has slid down his neck and over his throat, making its slow journey down to his chest. The suggestion of that image doesn’t exactly help Dean’s semi go down, but Sam doesn’t seem to have noticed.

Dean shakes, flushes, doesn’t bother to sit down. “Grizzly Adams,” he says, gets an eye roll in return.

“Why’d you think I’m trying to fix that?” Sam wipes away shaving cream, running his hand over the patch he just shaved. “Can’t stand being all… scruffy. Itches like hell.”

“And if we’re goin’ to Florida, it’ll just be worse.” Dean steps closer, rubs his hand down Sam’s spine, heel of his hand following the indentions of his vertebra. There’s a big fucking bruise at mid back, a welt higher and to the left. Dean palpates each one, checking how tender they still are, and Sam winces just a little bit - definitely better than they were.

“Packaging’s intact, Dean, just a little dented.” Sam’s done with half his face, his razor swishing around in the murky water. “Hand feels better already too.”

Dean doesn’t  _ think  _ he’s lying, but putting a brave face on it’s easier than telling the truth. Always has been. “Only if you’re sure, Sam.” He lets his hand linger on his back, Sam’s skin so, so warm, familiar, and Dean’s fingers already have the path of muscles and tendons memorized. He stays put, watching Sam shave in the mirror, the only sound being the soft scrape of the razor over his skin, rinse, repeat, until Sam’s wiping the towel over his face and splashing on the last of his aftershave. 

“Feels better,” Sam says, and Dean isn’t sure if it’s directed to him or not. He unplugs the drain, holds Dean’s gaze in the mirror, lips parted like he’s about to say something.

“Gonna grab a shower, Sammy. Wanna order in for breakfast?” He’s been getting these really fucking incredible egg things from the diner down the street, and if they’re going to be leaving town soon, he wants more of them - and God knows Sam’s probably ready for something he’ll actually remember tasting.

“Nah. I’ll pack up.” He finally turns around, taller than Dean by a solid margin, skin carrying the scent of Clubman, heat, desires that Dean’s now entirely sure that he remembers. “Unless…” His left hand comes up, fingers ghosting over the edge of Dean’s hip and stomach. Dean swallows, because when this was supposed to happen, he wasn’t anticipating it here or now. Maybe down the road, when Sam’s a little more on the up and not still coming down off of painkillers. Those things fuck with your sensitivity badly enough, and fucking on ‘em isn’t an experience that Dean particularly enjoys.

“Unless what, Sam?”

Sam hoods his eyes, taking all of Dean in, muttering a soft, low _fuck _that carries more want in it than any other heated word he’s had poured into his ear. “I - fuck, Dean, it’s been…”  
“Shit, I know.” He gets his hands and arms agreeing on working, and he pulls at Sam’s hips, connecting their bodies closely enough that there’s no way for his intentions to be mistaken. “Missed a couple chances, didn’t we?” Takes Sam’s good arm and puts it around him, because when Sam holds him like this, fuck, Dean’s got nothing. It feels _right. _Safe. He’s hard in under ten seconds, just having Sam here with him.

Sam nods, and tries to not look apologetic. Because really, what’s he got to be sorry about? Dean already forgave him, when they injected the anesthetic to stitch his hand back up, all of that blood running down his fingers and arm. “Do we have another?” He shudders on an exhale, fingers dipping to Dean’s ass and feeling the muscle through the thin fabric of his black trunks, worn by a hundred washings and torn in a couple spots by Sam being too hasty to get them off of his body.

“Lots, Sam.” 

Eighteen months out of Stanford, and Sam still thinks that Dean’s gonna want to take him back and that’s it, no more. No more of  _ this.  _ Dean didn’t survive well without it for the years that parted them, much less the nineteen days since the last time. He’s ready to reset that fucking clock back to zero. There isn’t a damn body or person in the world that he’s ever wanted or had as much as he’s had Sam.

And he’ll spend forever trying to make Sam believe it.

Sam’s still looking, still searching for the other shoe to drop. Dean tilts his chin down, brings Sam to him, beckoned with a quiet  _ c’mere  _ and Sam follows, lips damp, hot, parting a second after Dean teases his tongue along the edge. Just a swipe, something for Sam to follow. They’re good at this, knowing each other inside and out, all the steps in place, and Sam still gets fucking nervous when Dean pulls him to the dance floor. Afraid he’s gonna fuck it up, or do something that’ll have Dean spinning to whomever’s up next.

Maybe it’s the gap between times, the soft space between morning and noon and a full night’s sleep, but Sam’s hesitation doesn’t last today. He mewls, low in his throat, and backs Dean right up to the mildewy wall, left hand coming up to curl and cup the back of Dean’s head. Kisses with abandon only checked by the fact his body still hurts, tender on his arm and hand, but there’s enough of  _ Sam  _ in it that Dean gets the intent.

Dean licks and licks into Sam’s mouth, sucking on his tongue in intentionally lazy tempo, hardwired by kisses that go straight to Sam’s cock. He drops his right hand, pulls the waistband of Sam’s pajamas down and gets him out, long and thick, head dry save for the slit. A couple of tugs and a harder press of their lips together and Sam’s leaking like a busted tap, and Dean isn’t sure that he came since the last time he got him off a couple thousand miles and too many days ago.

“‘S however you want it, Sam.” Dean coaxes with sycned motion between his mouth and hand, enjoys the weight of Sam against his body and in his palm. Big fucker, every fucking where, and Sam’s got the audacity to be  _ modest  _ about it. “All you, baby boy, promise.” It isn’t even about reward, or relief - just a culmination of too long without each other. Sam moans into another kiss, taking the reins from Dean’s hands without so much as a thought. Dean moves from his mouth and down his bare neck, dappling his own marks among those from their hunt. Territory for Dean, not some monster to reclaim.

“Your mouth.”

Dean meanders up to Sam’s right ear, pulling Sam’s cock in lazy, firm strokes. “What’s that?”

“Your mouth, Dean. Want it.” Sam nips at his shoulder, just enough to make Dean’s breath jar in his lungs. He grins, sucks Sam’s earlobe into his mouth.

“Where, Sam. Gotta be specific.”

Sam hooks his nose and chin against Dean’s for another kiss, voice dropped to gravel pitch - “on my cock, Dean. Want you to suck my cock until you swallow every drop of me.”

Dean isn’t left with much choice in the matter but to go to his knees, not a bit of room left for argument.

He pulls Sam’s pants all the way down, no underwear to bother with, until he’s eye level with Sam’s cock. Porn star big, Dean swears it, but he won’t tell him today - no need in stroking his brother’s ego so that his nerves get even worse. Dean gets under him, licks from his full, body-warm nuts up to his circ scar, cut long unlike Dean’s high and tight. Frenulum’s still there, so that’s what Dean nails first, taking the tip of his tongue along that thin ridge until he’s at his slit, precome leaking on his nose and cheek. Sam wasn’t his first for this, but he’s the only one that’s ever counted.

“Shit, Dean, feels… fuck, feels good.” His left hand lands on top of Dean’s head, sliding into his sleep-mussed hair. He doesn’t pull, not today, just anchors himself as Dean comes up and takes him down his throat. He’s gotten better with time and practice at handling Sam’s size, tries not to think about that first time, after Stanford, when Sam had turned and done the same thing, sucked Dean’s brains right out of his dick, a hell of a lot more confident and skilled than before.

Dean’s supposed to be the only one teaching, not someone else. It wasn’t ever addressed beyond  _ you got better at that  _ and an enigmatic look from Sam, the orgasm he’d just had too fucking good to make him care all that much about where he learned.

But there’s no one else they put in their mouths like that, Dean far too possessive and Sam too jealous, to give that part of themselves to someone else. Dean likes being the  _ only  _ one to handle Sam like this, and it has him pushing all the way down to Sam’s short and curlies, musky with soap and the heat of arousal. Sam groans, curses, nothing to support him but his own wobbly knees. Any other time, and he’d already be braced against the wall and pistoning his hips into Dean’s mouth - not today.

He’s not going to tease him, not when the urge for relief has Sam so painfully hard that Dean can taste his heartbeat in the vein going up the ventral side of his cock - but he is going to make sure Sam remembers this. Dean hollows his cheeks, sucking long and slow until he’s holding just the fattened head of his cock in his mouth, tongue making slow laps around the crown. He looks up at Sam, the wide part of his mouth, his flush going clear down from his face to his chest. 

“Didn’t tell you to stop, Dean.” He caresses Dean’s face, thumb under his chin to guide him back down. Dean hums, does as he’s told, setting a rhythm that’ll give Sam what he needs a little sooner than he normally likes. Fucker’s a masochist, but today, Dean doesn’t think he’s gonna complain. He’s got his mouth full, his throat stretched, and Sam thinking about something other than the hole in his hand. 

He can live with that.

Dean messes with his balls, tugs at ‘em and rolls them between his fingers. Sam whines, moans, thighs quivering, cursing every other breath  _ shitfucksosogoodDeandontstopplease -  _ he’s coherent in a way that Dean’s pretty sure means he needs to work even harder. Dean doubles up on his efforts, sucks harder, deeper, head bobbing. He likes the trapped feeling, nothing to worry about but getting Sammy off. His own erection burns hot between his legs, the left leg of his trunks hiked up, pushed to the side so that he’s a brand on his own skin. Strips it slow, left handed, just foreign enough to keep his interest but not get him off. When Dean blows Sam, Sam doesn’t like for him to come on his own, something about reciprocation and  _ you’ve done enough, Dean, let me. _

It’s never, ever going to be a fucking burden to give Sammy head. Hell, some days, Dean probably wants it more than Sam does.

Sam grunts, holds Dean’s head in place and he barely gets out a bitten  _ fuck, Dean, gonna come  _ before he’s loading up Dean’s mouth, burst after burst, saltier than the one before it. Dean swallows it all, until Sam’s pulling his mouth back from oversensitivity, breathing like he just ran a marathon. It’s the first release he’s had in too long, and Dean feels awfully damned please with himself when Sam gets him up off the floor and immediately shoves his tongue back in his mouth.

“My turn,” he growls, and knocks Dean’s hand away, his left hand wrapping around the precome-slicked skin of Dean’s shaft. He kisses, tastes himself on Dean’s tongue, deeper and deeper. Dean moans, Sam’s grip strong, intent on getting him there. He lets his mouth linger on Dean’s for another moment, then he’s taking the same place Dean was in, folding himself to the floor and stroking his cock, looking up at him.

“Saw how you looked at me when I was shaving, Dean, knew you imagined this.” Sam leans back, giving it to him slow and a little rough - just how Dean likes it. The marginally more significant amount of loose skin he has on his cock is just enough that he doesn’t need lube for as short of a time as he’s gonna last, Sam pushing his tits out at him. “Gonna mess me up, Dean, bust all over my tits?”

“ _ Sammy. _ ” Dean swallows against his own breath, running short, pulled down deep into his body with every motion of Sam’s hand. There’s nothing to stop his orgasm, rushing faster and faster towards its end. “Fuck, Sammy, you-”

“Want you to come on me, Dean.” He goes faster, leans forward to bite at Dean’s hip. “Mark me up.” Licks his tongue over the spot he just bit into, sucks above it. “Gonna let some demon do that to me, and not you?”

Dean’s helpless, and he knows it. He growls out another curse, the rough of Sam’s hand catching him just right and he covers Sam, coating his neck, his chest, Sam up on his knees and balancing enough that Dean can watch his come stick in the dusting of chest hair he’s got between his pecs. Right where Sam wants them, dripping over the muscles towards his still stiff cock. 

Sam’s too fucking much, and Dean still isn’t able to get enough.

He stays upright long enough to see Sam up off the floor, crushing each other in another heated kiss that makes Dean’s heart crack, the scent of come and sweat filling the air. Dean breathes it in, deep, unwilling to let go of Sam for an instant. How could he not want this, this completely devious, kinky side of Sam, turned on him so fucking effectively it knocks the wind out of him. 

Sam uses his fingers to scoop up the mess from his stomach, holding it between their lips, tongues meeting around the fingertips and knuckles. It doesn’t really make up for the lost time, but it’s a fucking start.

“Feel better, Dean.” Sam’s voice is roughened with satiation around the edges, eyes burned to a gold-gray that Dean’s not seen in a while. “Can’t wait to fuck you, but this… fuck, Dean, best I’ve felt in a while.”

“You will, Sam.” Dean reaches between his legs, squeezes his thickened cock. Already needs to fire off again but really, Dean isn’t surprised - there’s a lot backed up in there. “But I think you need another if we’re gonna get outta here today.”

They do at least make it into the shower before Dean’s got his mouth full again and Sam’s one good arm is keeping him placed against the grubby, tiled wall.

Dean can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.


End file.
